Option Thirteen
by mari12345
Summary: Sherlock is a self-sacrificing bastard and John needs it to stop, because he can't go back to how it was before. No slash, post HLV.


**A/N: I received a lot of very positive comments on my last story, for which I was incredibly flattered and surprised. So here's another. It's not a sequel to Time, but I suppose you could call it a spiritual successor. Just couldn't get a little scene out my head and had to write it down, and then it became a story. Hope you all enjoy this!**

John sighed as he looked up at the man sitting behind the imposing desk in front of him. "What is it, Mycroft?" he asked. "You do know you could just call me and ask to meet, you don't always have to kidnap me."

"It has come to my attention that you intend to dine with my brother tonight," the older man replied, ignoring John's question.

"Yes, he's coming round for dinner. Mary thought he needed to get out of that flat and I agree. Plus, I haven't seen him in ages and nor has anyone else, far as I can tell. Why?" his eyes squinted. "Have you seen him? Is something wrong?"

"That is why I asked you here." Mycroft ignored John's incredulous expression. "My brother has been rather disinclined to speak with me recently. Angry, I suppose, at his botched exile. Though whether he's mad that I let him to go or that he was made to come back is anyone's guess. And now he refuses to even work with me on the Moriarty case, it's very childish."

John rolled his eyes at Mycroft's dramatics. "So is this why you brought me here? To convince Sherlock to talk to you? Because quite frankly, I don't place the highest trust in you when it comes to Sherlock's safety. I haven't forgotten that you're the one who sent him up on that rooftop with Moriarty three years ago. Anything could have gone wrong and he could have been dead for real."

Now it was Mycroft's turn to roll his eyes. "My brother and I worked out twelve possibilities for once he got onto that roof. Do not think I take his security lightly, Dr. Watson. I had thought we were beyond that."

John sighed resignedly. "No, you're right, I know you do try to help. I'll try to get him to talk to you, but I can't promise anything. You don't think he'd go back to drugs, do you?"

"No, he'll want to be clean now that he's trying to find the Moriarty imposter. I don't foresee any danger nights until the case has been put to rest, one way or the other. But I do need him to work with me, and I do worry that he isn't taking care of himself."

"Yeah, you and me both. Listen, I'll do my best and I'll phone you tonight if there's anything to worry about."

"Much appreciated, Dr. Watson. My driver will drop you off back at home. There's no need to go to the shops, he's taken care of your grocery list for tonight."

John didn't bother to protest. If his life was going to be constantly interrupted by the megalomaniacal personification of the British Government, he may as well get something out of it. And who wanted to go to Tesco at this hour, anyway?

As John relaxed in the back of Mycroft's private car, he replayed the rather odd—even by Mycroft's standards—conversation over in his head. Something the elder Holmes had said bothered him, but he couldn't pinpoint what it was…

…

Sherlock arrived at 7:00 on the nose, ringing the doorbell to the Watsons' suburban home. He stood stiffly on the doorstep, hoping in the back of his mind that it would turn out that they weren't home, that their plans had been forgotten, and that he could return to Baker Street and puzzle over the Moriarty imposter.

For it had to be an imposter, the real Moriarty was very dead. Sherlock would know, he'd seen him. And the organization that he'd spent two years destroying had certainly been leaderless, those Serbians had had no idea what they were doing, and the other operations were floundering even more. So who would try to resurrect Moriarty and why…?

So lost was he in his own thoughts, Sherlock nearly missed the door opening and Mary smiling at him. "Hello, Sherlock, thanks for coming."

"Good evening, Mary," he replied automatically and stiffly. Then he remembered his manners. "Ah… so how's… being pregnant?" Politeness was not one of Sherlock's stronger qualities, and small talk utterly defeated him.

"It's fine Sherlock," replied the unflappable Mary. "I'm always hungry, but, you know, could be worse. Come in, it's much too cold and wet outside." Sherlock followed her into the house, hanging his coat on the stand by the door and looking around.

"Nice of Harry to visit, I suppose, though I gather she didn't stay for long and it wasn't altogether pleasant. Won't be naming the baby after her, then."

"How did you know she was here? That was just yesterday and I'm sure John hasn't told you." Sherlock only smiled in response. "Oh well, you have your secrets. John's in the kitchen working on dinner, I'll bring us some tea."

Sherlock sat on the Watsons' couch, taking the moment to try to work through the Moriarty case again.

"What are you thinking about, Sherlock?" John asked, setting down the tea. "Mary's taking over for me in the kitchen. She's finally accepted that I'm rubbish, and she'd very much like for you to actually eat tonight."

"I appreciate it, though I hear her coming back. You got conned into doing the hard part, now your risotto just has to simmer for awhile." On cue, Mary entered the living room and sat down on the loveseat next to John, opposite Sherlock on the couch.

"You did get conned, sweetie, sorry," Mary agreed. John gave an exaggerated sigh, but smiled back at his wife.

"So, what were you doing in here while you waited for us?" John questioned again. "Looked like you'd gone to your mind palace."

"Oh, it's nothing, just a case," Sherlock waved the question away. As much as he appreciated John's help, the doctor had a baby on the way and Sherlock did not want to involve him any further with Moriarty. Though the man himself was dead, there was someone out there trying to emulate him, and that could only mean danger, as far as Sherlock was concerned. He had not forgotten his vow; Magnussen had not been the end of the debt he knew he owed John.

"Is it Moriarty? Have you gotten anywhere?" John asked eagerly. Mary leaned forward as well, hoping for an answer.

"You've met with my brother today, John," Sherlock stated, changing the subject. "I see your car hasn't been moved, the road is dry underneath yet it's been raining since this morning and you've clearly done the shopping today to get ready for dinner. I suppose he picked you up from here as you were about to leave. What on Earth did he want?"

"How do you know I didn't take the Tube or the cab to go shopping?" John asked defiantly, he still hated being deduced by either Holmes brother, and twice in a day was simply too much for him.

Sherlock waved away his objection. "You never take the Tube to go shopping, it's too much of a hassle. And you only take cabs with me. Plus, you would never buy such expensive olive oil. This has Mycroft all over it."

Mary rolled her eyes at them. "For goodness sakes, yes, Mycroft talked to John earlier. He was worried about you. We're all worried. We've barely seen you since you got un-exiled and you won't even talk to your brother, the one man who could help you with this case. Sorry John," she added, as the named man opened his mouth to object. "One of the only men, then."

"Yeah, Sherlock," John chimed in, "we really are worried. I know you weren't just thinking about any case earlier, Lestrade told me you haven't been taking his. And there hasn't been anything of note on the blog." When Sherlock didn't deny it, John continued. "You could at least let us help, you know. You remember the last time you tried to take on Moriarty alone." John winced even as he said it; those years had been too horrible to contemplate, for himself and for Sherlock, though the latter wouldn't admit it.

"Yes, I for one do not miss Hiatus John. I spent too much time putting him back together for you to make a mess of him all over again." Mary spoke lightly, but her words were deadly serious.

"Hiatus John?" Sherlock and John asked simultaneously.

"Well, that's what you call your little world adventure, your hiatus, correct? So that's what I call the John I first met, the one who thought his best friend had died in front of him. He wasn't the same John you left, nor even the same one you came back to. And you really can't do that to him again."

"I won't die this time, I didn't even die last time!" Sherlock protested, sounding exasperated. "You are both more dramatic than Mycroft."

"Look, we just want you to know that you don't have to protect us, or whatever it is you think you're doing. You need help. And we _want _to help." John stressed the word want, Sherlock had to know he wasn't a burden. He was as far from a burden as John had ever known, in fact.

Sherlock shook his head. "I know you want to be there, but you two are having a baby." He nodded meaningfully to Mary's bump. "You simply can't be following me around on cases anymore. It was always dangerous and now it will only be more so."

"That's why I _need_ to go on cases, then!" John shouted, startling Sherlock and Mary. "Sorry, but you can't just say 'It's dangerous and I'll probably get hurt so you just stay home and try not to think about it' and expect me to be okay with that. I'm your doctor, I have to be there."

"No, you are my friend and you have to be here. If I die, then maybe my mother is a bit sad and a few more criminals go free. Lestrade actually has to do his job for once, which is a scary enough thought. But generally people move on and life continues. If you die, you leave behind a wife and a child who will never be the same. You can still be my doctor without following me around chasing after criminals, so we'll leave it at that."

John looked to be fuming now. Mary sensing that they were getting nowhere with the stubborn detective, put a hand on her husband's arm and stood up. "I think it's time to serve dinner. Sherlock, could you be a dear and set the table? I find it much harder not to bump everything off nowadays." Sherlock jumped up eagerly, not even commenting on her use of "dear." Anything to avoid this conversation.

…

As they sat at the table enjoying the food, John was suddenly overcome with a strong curiosity. "You know, Sherlock," he said. "You never did explain how you survived your fall."

"Oh, yes," said Mary eagerly, "I've wondered as well."

Sherlock looked pleased at the new subject, always eager to show off. "Yes, well, it was rather impressive if I do say so myself. As I've told you, before I was interrupted, there were thirteen possible ways to get off that roof once I met Moriarty there—"

"Wait." Said John. "Thirteen?"

"Yes, I'd had time to plan, hadn't I? So, the first one was out because I can't jump at that angle—"

"Mycroft said twelve." Sherlock looked at him quizzically. "Today, when I mentioned it. Mycroft said you worked on twelve solutions. Why did you have thirteen?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes exaggeratedly. "Yes, well, he didn't like possibility number thirteen. And he is such a control freak he seems to have eliminated it from memory. Though perhaps he never acknowledged it in the first place."

"What was it?" John asked. "What was the plan that Mycroft hated so much he can't acknowledge its existence?"

Sherlock looked at him for a long moment, befuddled. "Killing myself, of course," he responded, as if it should have been obvious.

John dropped his fork, which clattered to floor. He stood up carefully, methodically, and stared at the detective. "What do you mean, killing yourself?" he asked quietly.

"If Moriarty really had thought of everything and there was no way out," Sherlock responded matter-of-factly. "I wouldn't have had a choice at that point, but I had planned carefully with my brother, so I wasn't worried. Didn't expect Moriarty to kill himself, either, but that was fine. It allowed me to use the safest plan."

John stared at Sherlock for a second. "Right," he said. "Right." He turned on his heel and walked stiffly toward the door.

"Where are you going?" asked a confused Sherlock, standing up.

"Out!" John yelled back, slamming the front door as he spoke.

Sherlock turned to Mary. "What was that about? I just answered his question."

Mary sighed, getting up. "Come on into the living room, dear." The detective followed her silently, sitting down on the couch as she once again took the loveseat.

"Look," Mary continued, "I know you're just being you and sacrificing yourself is how you show love. But it's getting a bit excessive don't you think? You would have killed yourself in your fall, you nearly died over your hiatus, you did not expect to come back from your exile (don't argue, I can tell when you're fibbing, remember?), and now you're expecting to get yourself killed over this Moriarty business."

"I'm not expecting to get myself killed," Sherlock argued sulkily, "I'm just not ruling it out as a possibility. What does John want, for me to drag him along and get _him_ killed?"

"No, of course he doesn't. But look," she leaned forward and looked at him intently, "John already blamed himself for two years thinking you had killed yourself and it was his fault because he didn't see the signs. For him, being responsible for your death is worse than dying. And to find out that you nearly did kill yourself and that it _would_ have been his fault—"

"Not his fault, still. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson were targeted as well."

"Yes, but you would have done it just for him and he knows it. And we both know he was the one you really jumped for. I don't think you expected Moriarty to target Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson until the end, I think you planned with your brother just to save John. And I think you would have died for him without a second thought."

Sherlock could not deny this. Mary never believed his lies anyway. "We did… miscalculate on that front. It wasn't until days before that we realized there were more assassins than we'd expected and thus more potential victims.

"But still," Sherlock sat up straighter, eyes flashing in annoyance, "I don't see why he is angry. I _saved_ him. I saved everyone. I'm sure he doesn't wish Mrs. Hudson or Gavin were dead. I am _trying_ to be a good friend."

He looked so lost in that moment that Mary couldn't help herself. She moved next to him on the couch and gave him a hug. "I know. And he knows. He's not mad at you. He's angry at Moriarty and he's worried that you'll die and he could have saved you. Do you understand?" Sherlock nodded. "Good. Now," Mary stood up, "help me with these dishes, will you?" Sherlock stood obediently and moved to the dining room to clear the table.

…

"I really ought to get back to Baker Street now, Mary," Sherlock voice was coming from upstairs when John walked in.

"No, no!" she cried. "I need you to tell me which of these baby shower gifts to return."

"That one," he pointed at one of the packages in a small pile on the floor of the nursery. John poked his head around the doorframe to see Mary and Sherlock sitting on the floor next to the bassinet they'd bought. "Clearly damaged by the store and you won't get your money back if you open it."

"Excellent, we'll use that money to get her a chemistry set," she said, smiling.

"The baby will be much too young—ah, joking." Sherlock smiled back at her before John cleared his throat and stepped through the door. Both occupants of the room stood up quickly, though Sherlock had to lend Mary a hand.

"I'm going to go, you two need to talk," she declared, exiting the room.

Sherlock and John looked at each other for a second. "John, I—"

"No, no. I don't want to hear it, Sherlock. I have something to say. So don't interrupt." He let out a breath, steeling himself for his speech.

"We are friends," John began, "but that goes both ways. It means that you have to make a speech at my wedding and pretend to care what kind of bassinet I buy my daughter, but it also means that I am there for you. You don't get to tell me when I get to be your friend and when I'm just a person you know. I want to be on cases with you, I want to be in danger with you _because_ you're in danger. What I don't want, what I really, really, can't handle, is the stress of wondering when I'm gonna get the call. When Mycroft or Greg or—God—Molly-_freaking_-Hooper, who is apparently _so_ much more trustworthy than me, is going to tell me that you're in hospital _again_, that you've been shot _again_, and that this time you aren't gonna make it. And that it's a real shame that no one was there with you because there were two suspects instead of one and you didn't know and the second guy got the drop on you and can I get to the hospital quite quickly, because there isn't much time to SAY GOODBYE!" John was shouting again by the end of it, and Sherlock looked stunned.

"I can't get that call, Sherlock," he said quietly. "And if you won't let me in, I'll just be waiting for it. It keeps me up nights, sometimes. You shouldn't have an option thirteen. Nothing is worth that."

"Okay," said Sherlock simply. "Okay, John, no more option thirteen. I… You can come on cases. But I won't trade your life for mine, you can't ask that of me."

"I'm not." John pulled the taller man into a hug, his head on Sherlock's shoulder. "But you at least have to give me some say. I can't be kept in the dark. It isn't fair." They broke apart. "Alright," said John, clapping his hands together, "let's get packed."

"Packed?" asked Sherlock. "I didn't bring a bag…"

"Not you, me," said John walking into his bedroom. Sherlock trailed behind, confused. "I'm packing. I'm spending the night at Baker Street with you."

"John—"

"No arguments. I'm spending the night, then tomorrow we're going to have a nice breakfast, which you are going to eat, and then you are going to fill me in on the Moriarty case. And then we're going to phone your brother and get his thoughts on the matter."

"God, not _Mycroft_, he's more useless than Anderson."

"Mycroft has the resources and the skill to help with this and you know it. Plus, he is genuinely worried. You're not doing this on your own anymore. Now, let's go."

Mary smiled as the boys said goodbye, kissing John quickly before they left and sneaking in a brief hug for Sherlock. "Let John help you," she whispered to him before shutting the door behind them.

"Would you really have done it?" John asked after a long stretch of silence in the cab.

"Yes," was Sherlock's simple reply.

"Okay, well… don't. Ever."

"Okay."

**Thanks for reading, feel free to leave a review!**


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